Push
by coffee shop poet
Summary: A spirited Avox girl with a mysterious past comes into Cato's possession. AU.
1. one

I remember a dream from long ago.

How it rolled out of the black oblivion. Sleep curling around me, plunging me into numbness, and how silent everything is. How the outside world can't find its way in. I've never felt so calm as I did in the tangles of dreams.

And then it comes - the first color, blinding like light.

I wade out into a sea of grain. Waist-high, dancing, swaying within the ebb and flow of the breeze. I feel no warmth, no graze of wind wash over my bare skin like waves. Only the colors are vibrant and alive and moving. Gold and black.

I sink deeper into the gleaming crests of wheat. They call to me. I can hear my name riding in on the undercurrent. I look for the origin, where the whisper is going, but it disappears. I'm left only with questions.

And I turn. The field around me bursts into flame. It's a slow, aching burn, and it goes on and on, violent and hungry. I stand, transfixed, rooted to the spot. And there – out of the great and terrible inferno rises a spark, unfurling into a shape. A bird. It eclipses the sky, wings outstretched on the air. I catch only a glimpse, a flash of light, and it's gone and I –

Something kicks me hard in the side. I wake with a start to find a peeling black boot in my face.

"_Wake up, wretch."_

I force my other eye open, though I can see little out of the bunched, throbbing flesh. My ribcage begins to ache again. It had only just calmed, after days upon days of discomfort. Now I have to start the process all over again – making sure not to lie down in the wrong position, walking in plastic cuffs while hunched over to protect the bruised ribs. It's not as if I don't have the time, the patience, to become accustomed again. Only that it's an inconvenience I'd rather not have forced upon me by an overly aggressive vendor.

A snort, followed by a voice wreathed in scornful laughter. "This is all you've got?"

"Paid top price for them," replies the vendor, indifferent to the stranger's tone. "Straight from the Capitol – doesn't get any fresher than that, Victor."

"Then the Capitol needs to up their standards. These are pathetic."

If I couldn't tell by the way he speaks about the Capitol, then I could by his accent. It isn't high and affected like the Capitol's flourished, flowery sort of speech. Actually, it's rather low, menacing, like the rolling hum of spoken thunder. I stare, unblinking, at the stranger's shoes. They are new, unlike the peeling faux leather of the vendor's – they, too, have come from the Capitol. Must've cost more than all of us combined.

"You interested in buying or not? I've got other customers, you know."

"No, you'll wait or I'll fucking break your neck," the voice warns, deep and snarling (like a mad dog).

The vendor staggers back a little – surprised by the whip-like quickness of such a threat.

The Capitol boots step forward. He's looking us over, inspecting the quarry of bent Avoxes before him with careful precision. Back and forth, agonizingly slow in pace, he goes through a basic checklist of requirements. Weight, looks, build, health. We have to check out to earn the _honor._ No one wants to buy a sickly Avox, only to lose hard-earned money to an untimely death. The loss is not mourned – only the waste of perfectly good cash.

At last, the boots stop – in front of me. With my good eye, I glower at them, making no move lest I be kicked again in the ribs. I've learned my lesson. It does no good to thrash, to fight, to preserve what little dignity I may have left to my name. It's less painful to resign, though the suffering seems only to worsen.

My chin is forced up with the toe of the shoe. The glare of the sun reflects behind a golden head, making it shine as if with a halo, a crown of light. For a moment, I can't see, but as my eyes adjust I find myself looking up at a cruel, angular face shaped into the form of a sneer.

"What about this one."

"She's feisty. Thinks she's a fighter, but I finally broke her."

The stranger wrinkles his nose, as if in disgust. Something hot and violent boils inside of me. I ache to scream, to find the strength to fight again. But I'm so _tired. _

He seems to remember the vendor, lifting his head to address him. "I'll take it."

* * *

><p>AN: Just an idea I had. Everything in THG reminds me of Rome - the Hunger Games like the Gladiator Games, the Avoxes like eunuchs who have, instead of being castrated have been stripped of their ability to speak, the Tributes like gladiators - slaves to Rome. I thought, that most likely, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for them to have personal slaves - being that they are decadent and senseless and cruel like the Romans. Seeing as Districts 1 and 2 were favored by the Capitol, they might be just decadent enough to practice slave-owning as well, taking Avoxes for personal servants. So, an idea brewed into this. An Alternate Universe in which Cato survives the Hunger Games, is crowned victor, and returns to his district. I might not continue it but...we'll see.

**I don't own the Hunger Games or its characters.**


	2. two

He drags me home, the length of a rusting chain between us. His steps are quick, long, and it's a struggle to keep with his stride. Still, I hurry forward, careful not to trip. It would be worse to be dragged through the dirt.

Each step is excruciating, sparks of white-hot pain shooting through my side. I'm not fast enough; every time I fall behind, he yanks viciously on the chain, wrenching me forward so that I lose my footing and fall face-first in the dirt. The sound of his laughter is like poison and my fingers curl into the dust, the color bleeding out of my knuckles until they're white and lifeless.

It's not as if I could have expected any different. It was stupid to even wish for different. The only districts that can afford to keep personal Avoxes are the favored ones – those who have been spoiled, brought up in the shadow of the Capitol's likeness in decadence and slow decay. Kind masters are a rarity. They exist in fairy tales of love and sacrifice and the freeing of those weighed down by their heavy irons.

Still, there's a soft ache throbbing in my chest, one that signals the death of hope. It had been stupid to wish for better, but here I am –mourning the hand I've been dealt. My new master is vindictive, brutal, with a twisted sense of humor that I can only hope to soon find ways to escape from. A deep, ill-sitting feeling tells me that I will be the subject of most of his cruel jokes.

He veers off the beaten path, where stonecutters and bakers alike have tread before on their way to the heart of the city. We pass a variety of people, from the lowest denizens to the elegantly dressed elite (wearing their Capitol like fashions with misplaced pride). Many of them trade looks with one another, staring after us as we walk in the opposite direction (toward the outskirts of the city). Some even call after him, waving at him, and bow their heads in respect. Our presence, however fleeting, causes quite a stir.

It occurs to me that, whoever he is, he must be someone of importance to draw so much attention.

A cluster of grand houses rises up before us. Rows upon rows of them, embellished with columns and carved white stone. As I stagger behind him, the chain cutting into my wrists and ankles, I admire the splendor of those tall imposing structures. They seem to stare down back at me. I am not worthy of this place – this is the place where laurels grow, the Victor's Circle. Where the winners of the Hunger Games live out their wealth, their honor in peace and away from the less admirable citizens of District 2.

He pulls even harder, hastening to a small square of land on our left. The grand house looms like a white giant, wreathed in rose bushes and young laurel trees.

In fear, I hesitate, and it's a painful mistake.

With a disapproving snarl, he picks me up by the collar of my shirt with such ease that makes my heart pound.

And he throws me roughly inside.

* * *

><p>I am ordered to kneel.<p>

Still recovering from my collision with the polished white floor, it's a lengthy process, lifting myself up to my knees. It's too slow for him. His fingers thread through my knotted, greasy hair, and for a moment my body sags like a dead weight in his grip. I have no choice but to submit. He has paid for me, for his own, and I am his property now.

He tears my head back with a strength that leaves me breathless. The searing, stinging pain comes after, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that rush in and threaten to fall. I must be brave. I can't show weakness or fear, if I don't want to crumble completely like old mud in his hands. But it's hard not to cry, feeling helpless and trapped here, no light at the end of the tunnel, no end to this nightmare in sight. And I feel myself giving slowly into him.

"Get this through your fucking head while you still have the chance," he says, still viciously clutching my hair. Weakly, I try to loosen it, but it's no use. My attempts to free myself only make him tighten his grasp even more. "You are worthless. You are a slave. Your only purpose is to serve me and make sure that I'm happy. If I'm unhappy – you're gonna have to pay the price. Do you want to know how you'll pay?"

He shakes me once, as if trying to dislodge the words from my throat; it's hard enough to make me nod in reply.

"Don't worry, I'll tell you. I want you to know the stakes." He's kneeling slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a sneer. "I'll whip you until the skin falls off your worthless fucking bones. Do you understand? _Do you?_"

I'm desperately trying not to cry now. This isn't what I'd planned, it wasn't supposed to turn out like this. He's getting impatient, his bloodlust swelling up into his face and crowding his eyes. I'm terrified I won't survive the first night.

My eyes are level with his, my head bent painfully back and his bowed. I'm close enough that I can smell him, all of him, and the roiling blackness in his unwavering cold stare makes my own blood run cold.

"I asked you a question."

I nod again. It's enough and he lets me go at last, leaving me winded on the floor with my scalp sore and hands flat against the icy stone.

"Good. Then we have an understanding. You won't disobey and I won't have to hurt you."

I keep my head bowed. Unlike the vendor who had bought me from that miserable Capitol prison, this is a man I don't want to cross. Until I can learn how to outsmart him, to escape him, I must mind myself and stay out of his way if I want to survive.

"Scrub the floors," he says suddenly, and tosses a scrubbing brush my way. "I want to see my reflection in them when you're done."

I get up and the chains rattle. He doesn't seem to hear them, or else ignores the fact that I'm still in shackles. Either way they're not removed and he disappears. I'm left with only a brush and a momentous task to accomplish before he returns.

* * *

><p>I'm exhausted by the time I'm through, but at least it's finished – I'm free at last to sleep. Even in the dim light, the floors sparkle, the last embers of sunset catching them just right so that it looks as if the stone is on fire. On trembling knees, I stand to return the wash bucket and brush to their respective places when it occurs to me – I don't know where to put them.<p>

Panicking, I search the gaping black doorways and empty rooms for a sign, a hint of where to go. But they reveal nothing. The sparse furniture and towering white walls are silent in the face of my terror. In a matter of hours, I have come to fear this new master more than I have ever feared anything else in my life.

I must find the storage room. As unpredictable and unstable as he seems, it would be a mistake to leave them lying here, even just to begin my search unhindered. So I tuck the brush under my arm and drag the bucket behind me. The chains make it hard to walk. I must manage, somehow.

It's an enormous house. The ceilings are so tall that I must lean back to see them in their entirety. The rooms seem to stretch on for miles, the endlessness of them interrupted only by small pieces of nondescript furniture. I count at least three magnificent gray fireplaces – in the living room, still left burning, a small parlor room, and what seems to be an unfulfilled library (not a book to be found anywhere).

I'm overwhelmed by the size. An anxiety develops, one that makes me think I'll never find this particular room, especially with a maze of different doors and broad hallways that seem to lead nowhere at all to get lost in. Before long, I realize I have no idea where I'm going, even losing track of where I came from. I can only hope that the rattling of my chains won't wake the master of the house. To be found wandering around like this can't possibly render a pleasant outcome.

After what feels like hours of drifting, I resign myself to whatever punishment will come. My bones ache with exhaustion. My body is beginning to wilt, as if under a weight that crushes me deeper and deeper into the ground with each step. I can't go on much longer; I _need _some semblance of rest.

And then I hear it – a voice, echoing through the halls. I turn, searching for the origin of the sound. Though muffled by the thick walls, it had seemed to come from somewhere nearby. I gravitate toward a set of tall double doors at the end of the corridor. It comes again, louder this time, and I'm sure I'm heading in the right direction.

Slowly, softly, I steal down the length of the hall. The door is left open, just slightly so that a small sliver of the inside can be seen even from where I stand. It must be him; he and I are the only souls who inhabit this great imposing house. But what is he saying? Is there someone in there with him that I did not see walk in?

Reaching the frame, I lean against it and peek through the crack. A fire is still burning brightly in the fireplace, throwing long hot shadows over the entirety of the room. It makes everything look and feel warm. There is not much furniture, just a tall-backed chair and an empty, dust-covered bookcase. A colorful rug lies stretched out beneath the chair and before the fireplace.

That sound again – it's his voice. And he's saying a name, loudly once, then whispering it over and over.

_Clove…wait. _

_Don't go. Don't go. _

_I want you to stay. _

_Clove. Stay._

His head turns toward me, the eyes wide open and staring. With a gasp I retreat, heart racing, and the blood feels as if it's pouring out of my face.

I close my eyes, preparing for what must be coming next – but there's nothing. No footsteps, no vicious, wolf-like snarling. Seconds turn slowly into minutes.

He's not coming.

Confused, I look inside again. He's still just sitting there, staring blankly out into the open air. I lean in, cautiously, and try to pinpoint what he's looking at. But it's nothing – just the blankness of the wall, not even a picture or design to draw interest to it.

And it dawns on me. He's not all there. I don't know what it is, what he's taken, but it has him wrapped up in some sort of stupor. The closer I look, the more I see the dream-like film pulled over his eyes, milk-white like a see-through veil. He can't see me. It's like I'm not even there at all.

_Clove. Is that you? _

_Have you come to get me?_

His voice is strange. Willowy, breathy, like a dream. Is he seeing something that I can't? A ghost, an unseen figure maybe?

_Don't go, Clove. Don't go. _

_I don't want to be alone._

I wish, more than anything, that I could still talk.

So I could answer for her, this Clove, who seems to haunt him in the midst of his oblivion.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm hoping these will get longer. But we'll see. Thank you very much to those who have reviewed. They've spurred me on. I have some ideas for this fic, though I'm still in the beginning of plotting it all out. Still, I have a good idea of where I want to go with it. Stick around to find out!

**I don't own the Hunger Games or its characters.**


	3. three

_Thalia, it's morning._

_Come on now dearest, it's time for school. You can't be late again._

_I know it's hard to sleep with your father gone. He'll be back soon. I promise you._

_But you have to get up now. It's time._

_ Come now, my love -_

_Did you hear that?_

_Was it at the door?_

_I think it was. Don't worry, you're safe with me, darling. You're safe._

_Wait here, I'll be back. And I'd better find you out of bed._

_Hello? Who's there?_

_No -_

_Please, wait. Please! You can't do this. You can't take her from me!_

_You have no right to come barging in like this! This is our home! Please, have mercy **please**_

_Thalia!_

_Get out of here!_

_Run, baby! They've come for you!_

_I can't hold them off much longer!_

_Run!_

_Run as fast as you can! -_

* * *

><p>"Wake <em>up.<em>"

Surfacing from a troubling dream, I'm almost grateful to whoever pulled me out of it. Then I remember. And all sense of comfort vanishes like a fleeting wisp of smoke.

The vague smear of sky-lit blue swimming before me are his eyes. There is a crown of gold behind his head, and I discern the indistinct glow as his hair. As my vision clears and his sharply angled face, in its entirety, slides into view, my entire body begins to curl inward in order to protect my bruised ribs. It's become almost a reflex by now, branded into my instincts like second nature.

Once I'm awake and slowly, cautiously sitting up, he tosses a piece of paper at me. Down it flutters, twisting in midair, until it finally scathes the tips of my knuckles of my left hand. It drifts and settles over my fingers, tickling the bare, nervous skin. I catch it before it can slip to the floor.

"I want you to get everything on the list. I don't care how long it takes you. Don't even think about coming back until you have it all."

It's hard and cold on the floor, where I'd finally collapsed in the throes of exhaustion in the early hours of the morning. Looking around quickly, I find myself in what looks to be the basement, a rather small, shadowed corner of space, buried ten feet beneath the base of the house. It seems to be established as a storage room. The scrubbing brush and bucket are installed in a comfortable little nook, nestled between a handmade wooden cabinet area and a sheet of pure rock wall. I don't even remember coming down here and curling up on the floor. Only that I was too tired to care anymore what happened to me - as long as I could sleep.

It's almost a surprise, when at once I hear his voice rumble overhead.

"The suit is on the couch in the nearest living room. Don't forget it on your way out the door," he says. "And before you start drawing up your pathetic little escape plans, I've installed a tracker in your arm. State of the art – straight from the Capitol."

It that explains the discomfort. I look down at the spot he alluded to, cradling the paper-thin, bruised up limb gently in the crevice of my palm. There it is, I can see its outline protruding out of the skin, pushing against veins that veer out to escape the strange little obstacle. Its outer shell is encased in a gel-like substance, making it easier to forget it's there, but still my flesh crawls over the sheathed metal, feeling every shift and every move it makes. It's a cruel invention, an invasion of intimate space that was not meant to be poked and prodded with machines.

He grabs my chin harshly, our eyes meeting – cold ice-wreathed blue against colorless pooling grey. "Don't get lost. I _will _find you."

Releasing me, he disappears up the narrow, creaking stairway. His footfalls are hard, quick thuds against the steps.

I prepare myself to get up, each muscle coiling like springs, as I remember the hindrance of my chains.

But when I lift myself up on to my knees, the freezing metal no longer chafes again my ankles. It feels as if there's nothing there.

And when I reach down, brushing my fingers against bare skin –

I find they've been removed.

* * *

><p>Outside, the light is waning. As if the day has lingered too long and the sun is giving out. It spills over the dirt walks, shifting into watery, delicate colors as the dirt turns to stone when I've reached the outer edge of the city. My feet pound against the ground and the glow of the earth, the heat of the afternoon, they seem to follow me. Imprinting guilt into the back of my head.<p>

Why should I feel guilty for running away? I should feel liberated, alive, _joyful_ even. Where is this guilt coming from? Is it from too much time in captivity? That's just the thing. It's an inexplicable feeling. The kind that sneaks in when you're not looking and settles deep into the back of your head where you can't reach, makes you question yourself. It bores further into me the faster I go, the more the need to escape grows and expands, touching every inner part of me like fingers. _Like a machine. Violating the most secret places inside of you, bringing them up into the harsh scrutiny of the light._

I have every right. As a human being, mutilated and beaten down by the Capitol and its many offspring, it shouldn't be guilt I'm feeling, but relief. It wasn't meant to be this way. We were supposed to be free. We were supposed to flourish, to question, to speak aloud our minds and fill up our hearts till they brim over. Like the way it was before the great fall of mankind. Before the sweeping ascension of the Capitol and the creation of the Districts.

We were given life to breathe it in – but all we seem to do is sink under, drown.

Even if I have to live in the woods, struggle to survive...it would be better than this. Anything would be. Than letting the bloom of hope falter, die, and finally wither in my hands like a starving flower. Like it did yesterday, when I realized my situation.

I don't want that feeling ever again. _Ever. _No more fear of beatings; no more being ordered around like I'm less than human and deserve nothing more; no more feeling my soul shrivel up as it sits there, wasting away like a beautiful caged bird_. _

I'll be _free_.

Despite the burning, itching pain in my side, I'm spurred on, my legs working harder as the epiphany spreads.

_I'll be free._

Faster, faster, until the whole city melts away into a churning rushing blur of grey and white and thin streaks of black. I can only imagine what they're thinking, the ones I pass by. Who I must be. And by the look of my clothes, who I must belong to. The pathetic threadbare rags that hang loosely over my shapeless skin and jagged bones – they're the rags of a slave. Soaked in dirt and sweat and blood and rot. No one but Avoxes are required to wear such humiliating things. That's how they can tell who we are. I'm surprised that no one follows me, hunts me down like the animal they think I am. It doesn't matter. Not really. They're in the past now.

And the rags - they'll be the first to go once I've found a way underneath the outer barriers that surround the city, keeping us inside.

But first, I have to get rid of this tracker.

* * *

><p>Once I've passed the final storefront, where a butcher stands pounding his thick red-stained fists into a piece of meat, I collapse behind a towering white pillar. I'm in no condition to be running, much less so with bruised ribs and a lack of proper diet to slow me down. It takes a long time for my legs to stop quaking, for my lungs to catch up and replace the oxygen I've wasted. Impatience gets the better of me, and I start pinching at the tracker in my arm with violently shaking fingers. It's no use, my hands are too unsteady – I'll have to wait.<p>

And so I lean my head back against the pillar, attempting to prepare myself for the excruciating task that's to come. Over and over, I think of all the pain I've been through in the last months, how this, in comparison, will be only a short spurt of agony – and then it will be the last I'll ever have to stand again. My eyes closed, I gently rock myself side to side, and try to remember my mother's song. The one she murmured into my ear as she brushed the hair away from my face. And she'd sing, in her off-key voice, a lullaby for me, to dilute the darkness, make it feel more like a shrouding cape than a hunter. And she would help me - rock me gently until I fell asleep.

It had been too long ago. My mind fumbles with the words, recalling only shreds and outlines of the ancient song. Her voice is even harder to grasp, ghost-like and far-away, as if I'm hearing it from miles and miles away and I can't make out the tone. My eyes flutter open again; I resign myself to never knowing her voice again, to forgetting, all at once, the comfort of her lullaby.

Old memories begin to stir, moving even older wounds to waking. They open up, fragile stitches breaking, and the sensation of torn scars resonates through me like a hurt that's been holed up too deep for too long. I push it back down, as hard as I can. There'll be time to deal with emotions later. Right now I have to get out of here – I believe _him _when he says he will find me. The only way I can better my chances of not getting caught is by digging this tracker out. It's not going to be easy. But I _have _to do it.

I tear off a long piece of my shirt and ball it up, making sure it's a thick wad of material. Quickly, I stick it in my mouth, and begin looking around me for anything sharp. It takes a while, but I locate a serrated fragment of rock on the other side of the barren street. It's fortunate for me that not many people have wandered down this alley – or else I'd find myself delivered back into servitude, a place I've promised myself I'd never end up in again.

Settling back against the pillar, I take deep, steeling breaths as I position the pointed end over my forearm. _You can do this. You don't have much time. Just sink it in as hard as you can and tear it open. It's the only way you can get out of here. Just do it. It'll be over before you know it._

Without thinking, I force the point into my skin as far as it'll go.

Nothing could have prepared me for what would come. No words, no lies, not even the comfort of knowing I'd soon be liberated.

My throat explodes with a scream as the pain rips through my body in crushing waves, wiping almost all strength out of me. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes, making it hard to see as they collect into a hot, watery film. If my hands weren't shaking before, they are now.

I rush to smear the tears away, lifting my arm to my face to survey the damage. Blood bubbles out of a deep, throbbing wound. Like a river, it descends down the length of the gash, pooling at last in the crook of my elbow. The flesh is hideously torn, tattered at the edges, with chunks of it lying in the puddle forming at my feet. I sob even harder as I realize I haven't reached the tracker yet – not even close. He buried it deep under the skin. So I couldn't reach it, not without tearing my entire arm apart.

I suck in three quick short breaths and plunge the tip in again, forcing myself to dig deeper and deeper even as my hands begin to vibrate uncontrollably and the bunched up material in my mouth fails to quell my screaming. Through the blinding, unbelievable anguish I feel it – the curve of the tracker's shape flush against the sheath of the rock. With one swift movement, I pop it out. It lands not two inches in front of my crossed legs, colliding with a soft metallic ringing against the blood-soaked dirt.

The rag falls out of my parted mouth and comes to rest at my side, bloodstained and shimmering with spit. A heavy layer of sweat has begun to form over my entire body. My skin slips beneath the slightest touch.

I lean up against the column, feeling all strength leave me at once, as if something it had sucked it out of me. My good hand releases the dagger, letting it fall to the ground with a thud. I bend the ruined arm against my chest as I fight to get to my feet. There's no time. I have to get out of here before –

I've only made it a few yards, taking a few uncertain steps, before a great and terrible weight crashes into my spine. The impact from the blow slams me forward, and I would have hit the ground, mutilated limb-first, if not for the massive arm that curls around my neck and presses something sharp against my cheek.

"Well, well," a breathless voice hisses into my ear. My eyes close; a broken heart begins to fail as it drops down into the depths of my chest. "What do we have here?"

He's caught me. All of that pain, the self-inflicted horror I brought upon myself, was for nothing.

I can feel his breath cresting over my ears, over my throat as he holds my head to rest against my shoulder. "It looks like you did exactly what I told you _not_ to."

It takes me a moment, still weak and light-headed from blood loss, to realize he has a knife against me. He slides it gently over the curve of my jaw, scraping it down the length of my jugular vein that pulsates faintly with each tired heartbeat.

"Or am I wrong?" He's snarling now, and I can almost imagine how terrible his expression must be. How steeped in anger, how the ferocity seeps into his face as if it were a black, hanging cloud. Within it, a tempest, and it seethes violently within the boiling frothing blood.

Viciously, he shakes me, and I slip out of his arms a little, my weight dead in his arms. I'm too weak to be afraid. "Was it stupid of me to think you were trying to run away?"

A pause. As if he's waiting for me to answer.

_I can't anymore. I can't -_

"Tell me, do I look stupid to you?"

Half-heartedly, I shake my head side to side.

"You must think so, or else you wouldn't try my patience like this. And in public too – what a shame. That's two strikes against you. I wouldn't want to be in your place, especially right now."

There's a long pause, in which he seems to wage a battle within himself, one I'm not supposed to feel beating like a pulse in his chest. _Should I kill her? It would be easier if I just ended it, right now. She's worthless anyway, at least for a while, with that arm. It'd be easier. I should just do it._

He still seems undecided. At this point, I could care less. I feel myself slipping away, the haze of unconsciousness clouding over, and I'm ready to give in. Let it sweep me under. Then I won't feel anything. The heartbreak at losing my last possible chance. The raw, vibrating fire spreading through my arm. It would all go away if I just let myself go.

"Come now, shake your head yes or no – do I look stupid?"

Again, I shake my head no. It's not enough.

"_Liar!" _

He tightens his arm, his grip too tight, and I'm starting to suffocate. Blood stains his skin as I claw at his wrists. I open my mouth wider, sucking in any air that I can get, but it's no use – his arm is crammed against the esophagus, locking out all the air. Darkness begins to crowd my vision, bleeding into the vivid blue sky sprawling out in all directions above me. Silently, I say goodbye to it, to the grass that once tickled my feet as I dashed through the underbrush; to the water that breaks upon the rocks, as soft as my mother's forgotten lullaby; the flowers that bend and tangle up in the late, balmy summer breeze. All of it will be gone in a matter of seconds, if he doesn't let go.

Every nerve has surfaced to the skin, feeling everything, screaming for just a taste of air. Every drop of blood that skims down the length of my arm is like fire. I finally close my eyes.

And fall down into the black chasm below me.

* * *

><p>AN: Ooh, developments. Twists! And what about that dream sequence at the beginning? At least now you know our heroine's name. Let's see if she survives in the next chapter, hm? ;)

Thank you, again, to those who have reviewed. I am so grateful for your very helpful, encouraging feedback!

**I don't own the Hunger Games or its characters. Only Thalia belongs to me.**


	4. four

Terrible dreams find me when I sink to the bottom of the abyss. Dreams of fire, dreams of blood, dreams of screaming tearing flesh and death's pale hand closing over mine.

I try to find my mother, my sister, though they seem hidden behind tall patches of grey that I can't dig my fingers through. They cry out my name, but it's stifled behind the barrier, I can see their tangible shape writhing behind it. The shapes are like trees. I try to knock them down, push them over like pillars, but their roots thread too deeply down into the earth. They won't bend beneath my hand.

_Thalia! Thalia, run! They're coming._

I'm powerless to save them.

And then the great shadow of a bird's wing eclipses the sun.

I look up, searching for it in the embers of the still-burning sky.

But it's gone.

* * *

><p>I come up for air.<p>

Gasping for breath.

A slender arm moves like a pendulum.

Back and forth.

Dizzying motions.

I feel a wet cloth press down on my temples.

"Don't be afraid. You're safe.

The words calm me.

"Go back to sleep."

And I submerge again into the dark water.

* * *

><p>'<em>I won't let you leave here without me. You know that.'<em>

'_You don't have a choice. I'm in charge around here. My orders are practically gospel. You have to follow them.'_

'_You don't have to protect me.'_

'_Yes I do. It's not safe for you out there – I'd feel better if you'd just listen to me and stay behind.'_

'_Nowhere is safe. Especially not now.'_

'_I don't want to put you in direct danger if I can avoid it. You're staying here. I won't hear it…stop trying to convince me.'_

'_You can't just leave me behind like this. I'm valuable to the operation and you know it.'_

'_You're no use to us dead.'_

* * *

><p>I come to again.<p>

Skimming the surface of the waking world. My eyes roll over and back into my head. I try to steady them but it's no use; I let them slide closed again.

In the corner of the room, hushed voices rise and fall, and they sound strange as if half-underwater.

"She's not doing so good, Cato."

"That's not my problem."

"You don't quite understand, do you?"

"I'm not fucking stupid, Draeda. I get that she's in bad shape."

"What did you do to her?"

"She's just an Avox. Nothing to get worked up over. I can replace her easily, maybe even with one easier to handle."

"She's not who you think she is."

"Whatever. What's the damage? I'm not wasting good money on a lost cause."

"Nothing that food, iron pills and rest won't cure."

"Then I don't need you anymore. Get out."

"No, I'm not leaving until she's fully recovered."

A loud, insistent scoff. "Whatever. But the second she's back on her feet, you're out of here. And I'm not paying you to stay."

"Fine with me."

A pair of heavy footsteps echoes off the walls, receding slowly until they've left the room entirely. _Cato. _So that's the bastard's name. It suits him just fine.

I feel warmth spread across my bare arms like a shadow. "I'm here, now. I'm not leaving until you wake up. You can rest."

_You can rest._

Her voice resonates, watery and thin, in my ears as the waves swirl over me and lure me back under.

* * *

><p>'<em>Don't do this. It won't prove anything. It won't make anything better.'<em>

'_You're right. It'll make things worse.'_

'_Then why? Why do you have to do it?'_

'_Because I have to.'_

_'That's just it, Thalia. You don't.'_

_'If we want to change things, then we have to take drastic measures. Sure, it makes our lives worse, but I guess that's the way it has to be. It's for the best.'_

Hands. Lukewarm and barely there. Choked in a lost, grayness of feeling. They brush against my cheek. But I can't grasp the sensation of skin against my skin. It's like I've misplaced the sensation altogether.

'_I love you. You know that, don't you?'_

* * *

><p>My eyes open again for what feels like the first time. They ache, the light of a candle hitting them hard. For a moment, I shield them with my arm, blinking away the sharp bright lights that pop against the back of my eyelids. As the pain subsides, I gently lower my arm – only to find another one reaching out to me.<p>

I gasp, retreat back against the wall. A voice accompanies the extending limb.

"No, it's okay, you're all right." It's a woman talking to me, but I can't find her face. "You're safe. We're in the basement of Cato's house. In the Victor's Circle. Your remember, don't you?"

I'm still trying desperately to find her in the dark. But yes, I remember where I am. That's not the problem at hand. Who is talking to me? Why is she here?

There, it materializes a mask of soft aging gold. She smiles at me, a warm, assuring smile that eases the racing heart beneath my chest. "I'm Draeda. Cato's healer, but I stepped in to help you. You have no idea how long we've been trying to find you."

This puzzles me. Find me? I'm of no importance to anyone, not even Cato. What use do I have to a District 2 healer I've never met?

I look at her again, finding her face crushed, as if her heart has been torn out by its roots.

"What have they done to you, girl on fire?"

_Girl on fire…_

_**What**?_

Again, I wrench myself back, out of the way of her hands that stretch out and try to catch me. Girl on fire? Who does she think I am?

"Don't you remember who you are?"

She must see the confusion in my eyes. I don't know what she's talking about, or why I seem to be upsetting her. Her eyes are filling up with tears and I can see the fire of her hope go out in her, like the way my own extinguished in Cato's vice grip.

The words come out half-broken, forced out of a tight throat.

"_You're Katniss Everdeen – the lost leader of the rebellion."_

* * *

><p>AN: I bet you guys didn't see <em>that<em> coming. :P Let me know what you think about the most recent turn of events!

**I don't own the Hunger Games or its characters.**


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